Chapter 1: The Flood

In our third year squeezed into a drafty, barely-big-enough apartment with Jason, Chicago got hit with a storm so wild it turned our whole place into a wading pool. Rain hammered the old bay window, blurring everything outside—sirens howled down the streets, streetlights shimmered on puddles that stretched as far as I could see.

I pressed against Jason’s shoulder on our faded thrift-store couch, teeth chattering, but I kept my misery to myself. My hair stuck to my forehead, still damp from my mad dash inside. Home was supposed to be safe, but that night, it felt like the whole city was off-balance.

Jason murmured an apology, his voice low and weirdly guilty. Then, like it was nothing, he pulled out his phone and donated ten million dollars to charity—just a few taps, not a second’s pause. My stomach twisted watching him, his world and mine never feeling further apart.

At the bar, a crew of Chicago’s trust fund kids—people who called the Gold Coast home—gathered, snickering. One guy, flashing a mouthful of perfect teeth, called out, “Man, all those rich girls want you, but you’re still hanging with her?”

Jason just narrowed his fox-sharp eyes, letting out a low, dangerous laugh that made everyone lean in. He looked straight at them, a smirk tugging at his lips.

“My girl? She’d work three jobs just to save up for a ring. Can your girls do that?”

Another guy, braver after too much whiskey, piped up, “But what if she actually proposes? Isn’t she supposed to get engaged to the Millers?”

“You’re just messing around—could you really bring her home as your wife?”

Jason paused, his voice going cold and steady. The laughter faded, the whole group hanging on his words.

“Besides, Rachel will never know. Not in this lifetime.”

He had no idea I was right outside the door—heart pounding, rainwater dripping down my neck, the world splitting open beneath my feet.